To Dream Again (10 page)

Silence fell between them. In her cloudy gray eyes, he saw the shadows of pain and disillusionment—the dark side of her husband's rainbow. He suddenly found himself wishing he could take those shadows away.

Her pencil snapped in her hand, and the sound echoed in the quiet, empty room, breaking the silence. "Don't tell me about my husband's dreams, sir," she said bitterly. "I know all about them."

"You don't know about
my
dreams," he answered. "I'm not looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and a little hard work won’t make me run away. I liked your husband, but I'm not like him."

"Yes, you are! You come here with your big ideas, with no thought to the havoc you'll create and the mess you'll leave behind when you grow tired of it. You're just like him." She threw down the broken pieces of her pencil. "Another rainbow-chasing dreamer," she said and turned away, heading for the door.

"And what's wrong with being a dreamer?" he called to her. "Don't you have any dreams, Mara?"

She came to a halt in the doorway. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "No," she said quietly. "Not anymore."

She was gone before he could ask what her dreams might have been. He looked down at the locomotive on the floor and decided that perhaps he could give Mara Elliot a new dream to believe in. His dream.

The books didn't balance. Mara added up the column of numbers again and came up with yet another total. Frustrated, she set down her pencil and leaned back in her chair. It was no use. She just wasn't concentrating.

She glanced at the clock. Half past seven, and she'd only ploughed through one tenth of her day's paperwork. She picked up her pencil.

Don't you have any dreams, Mara
?

She'd had her dreams once. She'd dreamed that James would stop dragging her and their daughter all over the world and settle down. When she'd realized that dream was just a fantasy, she'd formed another.

She had dreamed of her own home, a home with blue shutters and window boxes of red geraniums, a paid-for home that nobody could take away, with a huge kitchen and a full larder so her daughter would never go hungry. But that dream, too, had turned to ashes, leaving her with scars much deeper than the ones on her hands.

Husbands left, homes burned down, and children died, and it was just too painful to begin again.

So she had dreamed of running her own business, controlling her own life and her own destiny. That dream, too, had failed to come true. She stared down at the gloved hand that held the pencil. What had dreams ever gotten her? Nothing at all.

She began to add the long column of numbers, counting aloud, hoping that might help. "Sixty-four. Carry the six. Six and ten...nineteen...one-hundred ninety-four pounds. That isn't right," she muttered. "How did I arrive at that?"

Don't you have any dreams, Mara?

She groaned and lowered her forehead to the desk.

"Having a problem?"

She lifted her head. Nathaniel Chase was standing in the doorway, holding a cardboard box in his hands and smiling at her. She refused to smile back. He was the reason she couldn't concentrate. "I don't balance. I've added these numbers a dozen times and I end up with a different total each time." She sighed, too tired to wonder why he'd come to her office, too tired to care what havoc he would create next.

"Maybe you need to take a break." Nathaniel moved into the room and placed the box in front of her.

"What is that?"

"Dinner." He lifted the lid and tossed it aside. "I thought you might be hungry."

She leaned forward and stared at the sandwiches, glasses, and bottles nestled inside the box and realized she hadn't eaten since early that morning. The sight of the food made her suddenly ravenous, but she couldn't eat in front of him. She never ate in front of anyone. "Where did you obtain this?"

"Mrs. O'Brien made the sandwiches. I often order meals from her. I had Percy pick up the beverages at the shop next door."

"Mrs. O'Brien!" Mara made a sound of vexation. "She probably gouged you shamelessly on the price. How much?"

"Two shillings." He grinned at her frown of disapproval.

"Highway robbery. You shouldn't have paid more than one."

"I'll remember that next time," he said, smothering what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He pulled out two bottles. "Ginger beer or lemonade?"

A beverage she could accept. "Lemonade, please," she answered and watched as he pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket. He uncorked the two bottles, then poured the lemonade into a glass and handed the glass to her. She took a swallow, savoring the sweet-tart taste for a moment before she set the glass on her desk.

He began to rummage inside the box. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I had her make several different kinds of sandwiches. There’s roast beef, tomato and cucumber, and chicken. She put some sour pickles in here, too."

Mara stared up at him, unable to think of a polite way to refuse his offer to share supper with her, even as the mention of chicken and roast beef made her insides twist with hunger.

He noted her expression. "I thought," he said as he pulled sandwiches out of the box, "this might be a peace offering. What kind would you like?"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry," she said stiffly, clasping her gloved hands tightly together in her lap.

He set the empty box aside. Keeping one foot on the floor, he sat on the edge of her desk and studied her for a moment. Not wanting his perceptive eyes to see through her lie, she lowered her gaze and wished he would go away.

"You must be hungry," he contradicted her softly. "I know you've been busy working. I'll bet you haven't eaten a thing all day." Reaching forward, he pushed one of the sandwiches closer to her.

The scent of freshly baked bread made her mouth water. She pushed the food away almost desperately. "No, really, I'm not hungry. I...I'm too busy to eat anyway."

He reached out, and the tips of his fingers brushed beneath her chin as he lifted her face to look into her eyes. "I'm fairly certain that ladies always remove their gloves when they eat," he said in a gentle voice, "but if you choose to commit a serious breach of etiquette, I won't tell anyone."

He'd guessed her predicament. Of course. He'd seen her hands once before. Mortified, Mara pulled her chin from his grasp and looked away from the compassion in his eyes. She didn't want any man's pity.

He picked up another of the sandwiches, took a bite, and glanced at her. "Mmm. Delicious. Rare roast beef, fresh bread, plenty of mustard. Are you certain you won't have one?"

Mara stared at the sandwich in his hands and wavered, good manners and pride wrestling with hunger. Then, before she could stop herself, she reached for the sandwich and took a bite. It tasted so good, she almost groaned. She felt him watching her and looked up.

"Good, aren't they?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to the open ledger on the desk. "What are you working on?"

"August budget," she answered, grateful for the change of subject. "Halfway through the month, I do a budget for the following month. Once that's done, I can order materials and do a production schedule for the employees."

Nathaniel nodded and waved a hand in the air as he swallowed the bite of roast beef. "Eating and talking about employees reminds me of something. I have an idea."

Mara wasn't certain she liked the sound of that. "What?"

He grinned down at her, amused by the wariness in her voice. "Don't worry, Mara," he said. "This isn't anything revolutionary. I just wondered about the first floor—you know, the one we use for storage. We don't really need it for that." He licked a dab of mustard from his finger and went on, "What about letting people use that floor for their lunch break?"

She didn't bother to correct him on the proper use of her name. Instead, she considered his suggestion. "That's a good idea," she admitted.

"You don't have to sound so surprised," he said, laughing. "I do occasionally have them."

His laughter was infectious, and Mara found herself enjoying the sound of it. "The tables and chairs we can leave up there," she said, "but what about the other stuff? We could move it to the second floor, I suppose."

"No, we'll leave it. There's enough room. I want to use the second floor as my office." He looked at her. "That is, if you have no objection?"

She thought it over. "Why should I object? We don't use it for anything else. But it's awfully large for an office, isn't it?"

"I want my laboratory up there as well. I have a lot of equipment. I was thinking that perhaps you might want to move your office up there, too."

Mara froze, the sandwich poised halfway to her lips. The second floor was too far from an exit and too far above the ground to jump. If there were a fire, she'd be trapped up there. "No."

"Wait. Hear me out."

"I will not have my office up there," she said firmly. "I like my office just where it is."

"But if your office is down here and mine is up there, it will make it very hard for us to work together." His eyes held a teasing gleam as he looked down at her. "You'd have no idea what I'm doing. I could find myself in all sorts of trouble if you're not up there to keep an eye on me."

"Why can't your office be down here? There's another empty room across the corridor."

"That tiny cubbyhole? No, thank you.”

"I'm not moving my office," she repeated. As he studied her rigid expression, she hastily invented an excuse. "That room upstairs is so far away from things down here. What if I'm needed on the production floor?"

He considered her words for a moment, then he asked a totally unexpected question. "Do you enjoy supervising the employees?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. Do you enjoy doing it?"

She stared at him in bewilderment. "What difference does it make whether or not I enjoy it? I have to do it."

"Why?"

"If I don't, who will?"

"Michael," he answered and picked up another sandwich. "He's perfectly capable, and he's been a foreman before. I think we ought to let him do it."

Mara's sandwich suddenly tasted like cardboard, and she pushed it aside. He'd already taken everything else away from her. Control of the company, respect of the employees. Why not take away her responsibilities as well? All her defenses came up. "Why? Because I wouldn't be a good supervisor after that stunt you pulled this morning? Did you enjoy making a fool of me?"

"No." Nathaniel set down his sandwich and turned to face her, resting his forearm on his knee. "I didn't intend to humiliate you. But it was my first day in charge, and you were dressing me down in front of everyone." He lifted a hand to halt her protest. "Yes, you were. This morning has nothing to do with my suggestion anyway. I just think it would be a good idea."

"And what would I do all day?" she asked. "Sip tea and eat crumpets?"

He ignored the sarcasm. "I feel this idea has some advantages."

"What about Saturdays? Mr. Lowenstein is Jewish, and this factory is open Saturdays until noon. Who'll act as supervisor when he isn't here?"

"I will. Or you will. What difference does it make?" He sighed, seeing the stubborn set of her jaw. "Mara, I said I was sorry about this morning. I won't say it again. Do we have to fight about everything?"

She didn't want to fight. One day of battling with him had worn her out. Besides, she couldn't possibly win. "What are the advantages?"

"Right now, you spend most of your day handling problems on the floor. As it is, you don't even begin work on the books until after six o'clock. If we made Michael the supervisor, you'd be able to spend more time on the financial end of things. You might even be able to go home at a decent hour."

Home? To her tiny flat with its cracked plaster and rickety furniture? She didn't want to go home at a decent hour. There was nothing to do there but watch the clock tick.

She said nothing, and he went on, "You aren't able to do any future planning. You aren't able to go out and see what's happening, see what competitors are doing, or call on customers. The owners of a business shouldn't have to spend all their time worrying about routine operations."

She swallowed hard, not wanting to consider that he might be right.

"Why are we even discussing this?" she asked as she rose to her feet. She closed the ledger and shoved it aside, then walked around the desk and headed for the door, wanting only to escape. She grabbed her bonnet from its hook by the door. "If I say no, you'll put Mr. Lowenstein in charge anyway." Then she walked out of the office.

Nathaniel slid off the desk and followed her.

At the front door, she whirled around to face him. "Why are you following me home?"

"I live there, too. Remember?"

With an exasperated sigh, she turned and walked out of the building, with him still right behind her. She locked the door and walked quickly toward the lodging house, trying to ignore him, but he took the curb side and matched her hurried steps with his long, easy stride. When he spoke again, she began to realize Nathaniel Chase was not a man easily ignored.